Consulting Frustration
by Besina
Summary: Sherlock's been without a case for weeks and Lestrade won't let him in on the latest one at NSY. Confrontation ends with something surprising for everyone. Some dubious consent.


It was bureaucracy at its worst. Lestrade's superior was cracking down on Sherlock's involvement in cases, mostly due to complaints from Anderson and Sally Donovan, as they both openly despised the man, and had reasonable complaints about a civilian (however brilliant he might be) being allowed access to crime scenes. He hadn't minded before, and turned a blind eye to it as Lestrade seemed to favor the man, and cases _were_ being solved, rapidly, after all.

However, it was clear that neither of the officers was willing to let the issue drop, and both had mentioned the Police Commissioner in offhand comments. He didn't relish the idea of the two going over his head, and wanting no more headaches, he'd ordered Lestrade to stop allowing Sherlock access. Sherlock was none too pleased about it, to say the least.

Their latest row, of many, concentrated around a new string of murders that had made the papers and had, of course, intrigued Sherlock. The police were stumped – it was obvious – and why they wouldn't let him assist was driving Sherlock 'round the twist. It made no sense whatsoever.

He'd stormed into the DI's office near the end of Lestrade's shift, for the fourth time that week. A mystery lay just out of reach during a time of otherwise unending dullness and it had to stop!

The shift was due to change, and most of the office had departed or made their way to the conference or break rooms to update the incoming officers on cases or to relax and unwind before heading home. Hence, Sherlock managed to find Lestrade alone – just as well because the volume and stream of unbecoming remarks issuing from the consulting detective was best not overheard by the rest of the Yard.

Lestrade had come to the door of his office when Sherlock had entered the main area spouting invectives, but Sherlock's long hand on his chest soon pushed him back into it and the door slammed shut behind the very put-out, and pityingly bored, genius.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock rumbled warningly; it was already clear what the topic was – same as it had been the last three times.

"Sherlock," he held up his hands pacifyingly, "We've gone over this; it's out of my hands. I've been given an order – I can't let you in on this."

"People are _dying_, and you lot have no clue what you're doing."

"Don't give me that, Sherlock, you don't give a rat's arse that people are dying; you're just frustrated we won't let you play your game. And we _will _find the perpetrator without you; we did manage to function before you came along, you know."

"But it's bloody **_BORING!"_** he shouted, "You've no right to keep me out!"

"Au contraire, we have every right to keep you out. You're not an officer, Sherlock."

Sherlock merely huffed in dismissal of the notion of himself reporting to NSY, strolling to the opposite wall, near the desk, arms crossed over his chest, and leaning back against it to scowl menacingly at the DI. "I'm going mad! It's been weeks without anything to engage or dull my brain."

Greg walked toward Sherlock, shaking his head slowly, "I'm sorry Sherlock, you'll have to find your danger elsewhere for now."

"**_I'm_** dangerous like this, Lestrade, you _know_ that."

There was momentary silence as Greg stood in front of Sherlock, taking in the look in his eyes and internally agreeing that Sherlock was, perhaps, right in that estimation.

Sherlock continued, eyes boring into Lestrade, "My brain needs stimulation, or lacking that, something to slow it down." He took a step forward, invading Lestrade's space. "Since you can't provide stimulation, and there is a dearth of it to be found elsewhere," he gestured in a wide arc, seemingly referring to the rest of London, as a strange glint found its way into his eyes, "perhaps you could at least be useful enough to slow it down." And within seconds, Lestrade found Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around his wrists, while the man spun him around dizzyingly fast and pinned him against the wall, Sherlock's long body pressed hard along his back.

It had all happened quickly enough Lestrade had had barely enough time to register what was going on. He was used to perpetrators moving quickly, but had never anticipated something like it from Sherlock – and the man moved _fast – _quicker than a snake strike. He panted, trying to regain his balance and his wits as his cheek was pressed against the wall.

"Sherlock," he began, "Sherlock!" he wrestled against the fingers still locked around his wrists, now holding them tightly above his head. "What the hell are you playing at?" his voice died to a croak when he felt Sherlock's other hand work its way around and begin unfastening his belt and trousers.

Momentarily shaken, he stilled in disbelief as Sherlock unzipped his trousers and pushed both them and his pants down around his knees, then the fighting started in earnest. He tried to shift his weight, but Sherlock only pushed himself more heavily against the DI and kicked his legs apart, nearly causing him to lose his balance. Sherlock's grip was as tight as ever around his wrists as he struggled to lower them and break out of the detective's grasp.

"Be still, Greg, I won't harm you. In fact, I expect you'll enjoy this, if I've been reading you correctly for the last few months."

Greg's eyes widened as he felt Sherlock pressed against him, very definitely aroused. He gulped and tried again, this time the detective's name coming out as a mere whisper.

He felt Sherlock's breath against his neck moments before soft lips descended upon it, kissing warmly, then licking, then sucking. It was a weak spot for Greg, and Sherlock had somehow sussed out exactly where it was. Greg's head would have tilted back onto Sherlock's shoulder if he hadn't still been pinned against the wall, a soft whimper making its way from him, as he still tried to squirm from beneath Sherlock.

There was a soft sound of a zip, the feel of his shirt being pulled up, then the warmth of Sherlock's prick, hard against his buttocks.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade gasped once again, breath hardly making its way from his lungs.

"I'm not going to bugger you, Greg, relax. Besides we're hardly prepared for that." He felt Sherlock tip his cock downward, pressing it in between his legs, up against his sac. "Close your legs, Greg," came the soft order in his ear as a tongue played around the outside. Sherlock moved back incrementally enough to allow Greg to adjust his stance, before pressing back against him.

"Tighter." Greg pushed his legs even further together, flexing the muscles in his thighs. A warm breath ghosted over his ear as Sherlock moaned. "Oh! That's good. Now stay…" Sherlock began thrusting minutely between his thighs, his cock massaging Greg's bollocks on every forward movement.

There was a slight pause as he felt Sherlock's free hand strain to pick something off of his desk. A soft snap, then the sound of something being squeezed from a bottle. He felt something cold and smooth drop onto his buttocks. Hand lotion. Sherlock dropped the bottle to the floor, scooping up the lotion and bringing it down to his cock. He pulled back for a second to apply it along his length before he pushed back between Greg's thighs with an audible sigh and began thrusting again. Sherlock's cock ran smoothly between Greg's legs, coating the underside of his scrotum as it came into contact with it, and Greg shuddered despite himself. Then Sherlock went back to sucking on his neck, and Greg was lost.

"Can I trust you enough to let go now?" whispered Sherlock into his ear, still thrusting, rubbing along the underside of Greg's sac. Greg merely moaned and nodded as Sherlock latched back onto his neck, paying attention to the other side this time. "Hands on the wall, either side of your head," murmured Sherlock against his skin. Greg complied and felt Sherlock pull his hips back a little from the wall. Before he knew it, the fingers that had been holding his wrists captive wrapped themselves around his prick, pulling at it in an expert motion as Sherlock continued to move between his thighs, fingers ghosting over the tip on every forward thrust, running backward down the shaft on each retreat.

Having enough room now to move, Greg did drop his head backward onto Sherlock's shoulder, panting breaths and groans escaping his lips. "God… Sherlock…"

"Quiet. I'm concentrating," the breath wafted against his neck as Sherlock moved to engage yet another part of it with his teeth and tongue.

Sherlock's hips moved faster, beginning to snap to and fro, his hand speeding up as well. Greg had his eyes closed, breath coming rapidly, as he felt himself manhandled and used, talented fingers pulling quickly, bringing him to the edge, then pushing him over as a soft bite landed on the back of his neck.

Greg arched back into Sherlock, bucking against his hand as come splattered against the wall in front of him. Sherlock worked him through it without losing any of his own rhythm. When Greg was spent, Sherlock latched both hands onto the DI's hips, pulling him back against him as he rutted hard and fast between his legs. There was a massive shudder, then he stilled as his seed burst from him in concentrated spurts, groaning loudly at his release and burying his forehead against Greg's shoulder. Two more staccato shudders, then Sherlock slowly removed himself from between the detective inspector's legs. He moved to the desk quickly and handed a box of tissues to Greg to clean up with, before the mess ran too far down.

Sherlock pulled a few from the box to clean himself up, then, pulling up his own trousers and waiting for Greg to do the same, silently helped clean up the wall.

Voices started drifting toward the outer offices as the next shift of workers started to settle in.

Greg, still pink in the face, turned and peered at a very sated-looking Sherlock. "Sherlock, that – that was _not_ on." His brows crowded together as his look morphed into a glare.

Sherlock smiled back and said, "Ah, but you liked it. In fact, you wouldn't mind a repeat. And I'm sorted for a few days anyway."

Greg started to speak but Sherlock interrupted him. "Get me a case, Greg, or if you prefer, next time why don't you come see me at Baker Street. It'll be worth your while," a satisfied grin lit Sherlock's face. "Ta, Greg." Sherlock spun on his heel and left while Greg's brain was still churning.

Head still reeling, Greg barely looked up as his replacement for the next shift walked in. _Maybe a visit to Baker Street might be advisable – it certainly would keep the riff raff away for a time, and that'd be good for everyone, wouldn't it?_, Greg thought with a smug grin before packing up his things and heading home for the night, ignoring the protest of, "Oi! Why's the hand lotion all over the floor?" echoing from his office.


End file.
